


Haven

by glim



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, implied endeavour morse/fred thursday/win thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse brings Thursday back to the lake house. (Takes place after RIDE.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven

The first night after what Morse can't help but still term the last night, he brings Thursday back to the lake house. This night is cold and starless, the overcast sky finally fulfilling the promise of rain it held onto all day. 

"You're sure?" Morse asks, hoping. He doesn't want to drive back to the city in the rain; he doesn't want to drive Thursday back into the city yet and let him go again. 

Thursday nods. Rain dashes against the car windows, sudden and sharp, the sound of wind behind it. "Best make a run for it." 

Morse parks the car as close as he can to the house and springs after Thursday through the scatter of chilly rain onto the porch. His hands shake a little, a combination of nerves, relief, and what adrenaline he has left after a few sleepless night in a row. If Thursday stays, even for a few hours, Morse believes that he'll be able to stay warm all night long, that he might even be able to sleep all night long, and that the fear that lurked behind his every thought since that last night will dissipate at last. 

"Do you want to go in?"

Morse gives a nod and glances at the cabin--it's hardly a house, and it's certainly not a home. It is, however, all he has right now.

"I do, I just--" he stops when he hears Thursday's breath catch in his chest. A few short, tight coughs persuade Morse to cup his palm around Thursday's elbow and guide him inside. 

"It's nothing." 

"It's not," Morse replies, but doesn't press Thursday. Instead, he keeps a hand on Thursday's arm and clicks on one of the table lamps. 

"Will you come home soon?" Thursday drapes his coat over a chair, and rests Morse's atop his. 

"I will. As soon as I can find a place." He turns on another lamp, then looks over his shoulder when Thursday coughs. "Let me make you a cup of tea." 

"Don't fuss." Another cough, low and rough. Thursday looks ready to press a hand to his chest. 

Or maybe that's just Morse's worried imagination. He stands and turns to face Thursday, rests both his own hands on Thursday's chest, and leans in to rest his forehead against Thursday's. "Let me. I'll have one, too. We can drink tea in bed." 

Thursday laughs this time, low in his throat, too, and Morse can feel him relax. "You're not subtle." 

"I'm tired," Morse admits. He could stay here, standing close to Thursday, in the middle of the cabin, their bodies warm and close at last. "And I worry about you. I didn't know..." He rubs Thursday's chest, as if he could find whatever hurt remained and erase it forever, erase even the memory of the pain.

"It happens when it's damp, or when I'm tired, that's all, just the cough." Thursday rests one hand atop Morse's and nudge Morse's head up. "That's all that's left, really."

Morse presses is quite close for a moment, then draws back when even he can feel the damp and chill creep into the cabin. 

They'll be closer in bed, and warmer, and Thursday will need the tea to take the edge of the chill coming in from the lake. He really ought to have tea with lemon and honey, but Morse has neither, so he adds scotch instead. That'll help start to warm him up; Morse will do the rest. 

"You can sit on the bed," Morse says as he loosens Thursday's necktie and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt. "Rest--relax," he amends when Thursday sighs, "I'll do tea for the both of us." 

In a few minutes Morse brings two mugs of tea to the bed, drops an extra blanket at the foot, and strips down to his shorts and undershirt. 

"You do realize it's nearly springtime? Well, English spring, but still. _Morse._ " Thursday nudges the blanket with his foot, then holds out his arm to draw Morse onto the bed. "Morse," he says again when they're curled close, "Will you come home?"

Morse doesn't think of his tiny Oxford flat, but of the Thursdays' house, of the bright, busy mornings there and the warm evenings. Quiet afternoons, slanting sunlight and tea, in the master bedroom. 

"Come for dinner one night, or for Sunday lunch. Whenever you like, or as often," Thursday says before Morse can answer. "And if you still want to come, when the children aren't around--" 

"I do. I'll come, I promise." Morse tucks his head into the crook of Thursday's neck and presses closer, as close as he can. "I promise," he repeats. 

Thursday takes a breath as if he's about to say something else, but stays quiet, and tightens his arm around Morse. His breathing has an uneven little catch behind it, not quite a cough, and he has to clear his throat before he does say something. 

"Right." He accepts the tea this time when Morse offers it to him, one arm still around Morse, and drinks before speaking again. "First Sunday after you're settled back in town. You'll come 'round for lunch. Late lunch, and we'll do it proper--roast and pudding."

Morse can't help but smile at the warmth that fills him at the thought of such a Sunday afternoon, anticipation for the future mixed with memory of the past, and he rests his head against Thursday's shoulder to watch Thursday drink his tea. 

"I'll find a place soon enough. Somewhere small. Close by," he adds. The cabin is small and isolated, and the sky and lake feel very big and empty around it, especially at night when the wind skims cool and damp off the surface of the lake. 

Tonight, however, it feels small and safe, warm and private. The lamps create pools of soft, gold light that blur the harsher edges of living out by the lake. The hot tea and scotch feels as if it pools warm and molten gold inside Morse, too, and he easily slips an arm around Thursday to hold himself closer. 

Protectively close, he knows, and there is a reassuring security in knowing that there are still small ways that he can protect Thursday. Hold him close, rest a hand on his chest when he coughs, remind him to drink the tea, use those action to form a tacit promise that he will do his best to stay this close as long as he can.


End file.
